I love getting new neighbors.
The entire process is filled with highlights and milestones, but there is nothing like the beginning, the first meeting. A flash of panic on the wife’s face and you can see the sense of foreboding settle around her like a cloud. Perhaps she turns to her husband with a scowl to stem his widening eyes and jopped draw. Or maybe she studiously avoids looking at him, trying to will his inevitable arousal away by ignoring it.
He, naturally, is mesmerized and there is always an initial period where he forgets to conceal that inconvenient truth. He may have a vague sense that things are changing, but even the strength of that first powerful hard on doesn’t clue him in on exactly what is happening. He doesn’t know yet how many times he’ll scurry out of the house to walk the dog in a desperate attempt to catch a glimpse of me.
Or how he’ll encourage his wife to go out for a ladies night so he can plot an encounter of a more sustained sort.
It’s like living next to a bakery and subsisting on a diet of tofu and rice cakes. I am the sugar rush he dreams of, his sexual obsession, the embodiment of his every erotic craving. I know what I do to men. I revel in it.
By the way, would you like some sugar?